Shadow
by kiskool
Summary: One-shot set during Half-Blood Prince. "A shiver travels up my spine, provoked by the suggestive tickle of his magic. I hear him react to my reaction-an answer. I want to whimper, but I hear his shoe scruff on the ground. I think he's come closer ..."


**Shadow**

"_An enemy who shows you kindness becomes your friend,_

_excepting lust, the indulgence of which increases its enmity."_

_~ Saadi_

It's late Tuesday night and he's following me. Again.

I imagine he thinks he's being discrete, trailing behind me under the thin cover of his invisibility cloak, but discretion requires more than a mere barrier of magic fibers. I've learned this lesson. Potter has not, but it doesn't surprise me. He's always been a tosser.

I've been so cautious this year trying to fulfill my mission for the Dark Lord, but I'm still failing. The Weasel drank the mead meant for Dumbledore. I hate the Weasel, but I'm glad he didn't die and that's not because I like him. It's really that I wouldn't want his blood on my hands, or Katie Bell's for that matter.

The vanishing cabinet stands waiting for me in the Room of Hidden Things—waiting for me to solve the puzzle, answer the riddle, anything to make it work. But I'm running out of time and I feel myself falling fast towards my final fate. Six feet under. Buried. Dead. My life and my parents' lives are at stake. They are the price.

I didn't realize the risks. I was a fool and eager to avenge my father after his imprisonment. I blame Potter and I hate him. Realistically, I know it's not his fault, but I can't help the way I feel, and he makes as good a scapegoat as anyone. I find it ironic now that I joined the Dark Lord to avenge my father, but He's played me all along. _My failure_ is my father's _punishment_ for his failure and now I'm frightened. I'm meant to die.

I'm meant to die grasping blindly at success, arms straining and muscles burning from the stress. Dumbledore's death—the end result, the success. If I knew then what I know today, I may have made a different choice. But I am a pawn in a chess game and thus disposable.

I hear Potter's cloak rustle and drag against the stone wall. I pause. My shadow pauses a beat later. We both stand still and time stands with us. I take a shallow breath, letting him think I'm nervous. We're playing a game of cat and mouse, Potter and I.

Choice. That word makes me bitter and leaves an acrid taste like bile in my mouth. For all the Light side's talk of choice, it sure isn't easy for everyone to have a choice. I know I don't have a choice. I probably never have and what would have been my alternative? The Dark Lord would have killed me last summer if I'd defied him. And now I'm still a fumbling, frightened fool, spiraling toward a long and painful death. I won't lie because I'm tired of lying—I'm fucking terrified.

I can still hear Potter's footsteps. He probably thinks he is quiet, but in the stillness of an empty, echoing space, he sounds like a beast from a heard of hippogriffs. All is silent for only a second or two, and then I hear a shoe dragged on the floor and magnified by the acoustic hall. I wish he'd pick up his damn feet and stop walking like a slob. The sound is beginning to grate on my nerves and I clench my jaw tightly.

He's grown too comfortable with that damn cloak. If he were smart, he'd know better than to assume I don't hear him, especially after I caught him already that time on the train. Would he realize this if I stunned him now and broke his nose again? I want to break it, but I don't all the same. I want to hurt him, punch him, kick him when he's down, but I'm too frightened and tired. I'm running out of time to complete my assignment. Potter's been far from my mind this year but I haven't been far from his. I hear his shoe scrape the stone floor again and cringe. I know discretion. Potter does not.

Though the weather outside is beginning to warm, this corridor is chilly. A shiver travels up my spine and my body quivers. How close is he, I wonder. If I shut my eyes, I can imagine he's standing right behind me, breathing on me, and that's the reason I'm shivering. But I know that's not the truth. Even though he's fairly close, it feels like he's closer because his presence is a heavy, intimate weight. It's like he's _right there_ and he's driving me mad.

I don't want to deal with him tonight or any night. I have to lose the specky git and throw him off my trail, so I increase my speed and lengthen my stride. If he walks any faster, even he will have enough sense to realize he's too loud and that I could hear him. I roll my eyes. I already know he's there. And he thinks I'm oblivious.

I'm no longer a Prefect, so it's difficult to reach the seventh floor from the dungeons at night. So I'm careful and quiet (unlike Potter) and always check around the corners. I've reached the fifth floor now and am walking smoothly toward a moving staircase that is just around the next bend. I stop at the corner. Predictably, I hear Potter shuffle to a quick stop—he was nearer than I thought. I don't know when he got closer.

I lean against the wall and feel the cold from the stone leaking into my skin, making me shiver again. I close my eyes slowly and hold my breath, listening for footsteps or noise. I picture Potter doing the same, or maybe watching me against the wall. Greeted with silence, excluding Potter's indiscrete and heavy breathing, I peer around the corner and squint down the long corridor. It is dimly lit, but no one is coming.

I exhale and quickly push away from the wall, striding briskly toward the staircase. Luck is on my side tonight and the moving staircase is in position on this landing. I ascend halfway and turn partially around, leaving several stairs for Potter. When I hear the rustling of his invisibility cloak, I know he is standing very close to me and invading my space. Am I imagining the faint scent of the ancient and well-worn fabric of his cloak?

I wonder what he's thinking about, if he's watching me and reading my face. I wonder if he knows I'm thinking of him at this moment. I look right where I think he is standing, staring very intently for a moment, but just a moment, before I turn my back to him once more.

He takes a sharp inhale then stops breathing, thinking I've heard him. Well of course I've heard him, but I'm not about to let him know that, am I? I ignore him and my face stays impassive, but I'm beginning to feel nervous. I think I hear his cloak rustle again and sense him standing closer. Why hasn't the staircase moved yet? I'm holding my breath and remaining silent, but my traitorous body shivers, betraying my disquiet. He inhales sharply again. I think he's watching me and I imagine his emerald eyes, traveling the lines of my gaunt face.

I wonder what he sees and thinks when he looks at me. I know I look ill, that's for sure. My face is hollow and the paper-thin skin around my eyes is bruised from stress and insomnia. I've lost significant weight and my muscles are weak after nearly a year without Quidditch. I've always been slender, but now I am _thin_ and my body betrays my poor overall state. But I can feel _those eyes_ roaming over my features, taking in my misery.

Only a moment has passed, but I'm feeling intruded upon and wishing I weren't trapped here on a staircase with Potter. He's followed me on several different nights, but he has never been this _close_ and it's entirely unnerving. The staircase begins to gently and slowly move. I swear I can feel his magic now, cracking and sizzling around him, jumping out of his body to touch mine. My paranoia must be sinking in.

I close my eyes again, breathe deeply, and try to let that thought drift past, but I can't—I feel his magical current unabashedly kiss mine again. His magic is loud and wants to be heard. Am I affecting him as much as he's affecting me? I shudder but try to pretend I'm unaffected, but I'm only lying. I am repulsed to note that I may be feeling arousal. I take a sharp breath when another shiver travels up my spine, provoked by the suggestive sharp tickle of his magic. I hear him react to my reaction, a quick inhale followed by a heavy exhale, an answer. I want to whimper, but I hear another scruff on the ground …

I think he's come closer.

I'm quite hot now and I don't know where the cold went. A prickle of sweat is forming on my brow and my upper lip so I subconsciously dart out my tongue and lick my lip, tasting the salt. He breathes and I picture him biting his plump red bottom lip, then licking and glossing it with saliva. The mental image is delicious and I imagine myself biting down on that tender flesh, sucking it in between my teeth and nibbling and playing with it. I have no idea where these images came from, but they are really fucking sexy, and the heat surges straight through my body on direct route to my groin.

I have an urgent need to know if he's close enough to touch. If I stretched out my arm now, would my hand meet his solid, warm body within an arms-length of my own? I groan at the thought of his hard, hot body, but don't know where that came from either. He reacts again and I hear him try to suppress a moan. My eyes widen and I hope he doesn't see and realize that _I know_ he's watching me intently. This situation is oddly erotic and I'd like to prolong it, but the stairs are getting close. I've quickly become hard, my pants too tight and hot. I'm very aroused now … by _Potter._ I groan quietly again and listen for my shadow's answering moan. Oh yes, I think he knows I know, but I cannot be certain …

Then I feel it. Heat. Not quite touching me, but radiating off of his body in rippling wave upon wave. My eyes widen dramatically and just as quickly darken. _He's standing right there_ and I think he's going to touch me. I hold my breath and I'm feeling really turned on now. His cloak rustles and I feel it brush silkily against the backside of my right hand. I bite into my bottom lip, hard, and stifle a groan. My eyes screw shut.

The staircase comes to a jolt and I immediately open my eyes. Catching myself, I race onto the landing, suddenly fumbling for self-control. Potter is still trailing behind me quite closely and his magic jumps out towards mine. I walk stiffly; my erection is hot and heavy in my slacks and not diminishing. I'm painfully turned on. Hearing the scuff of his shoes on the stone and the rustle of his cloak unnerves me. I can't gain my control.

As I round the corner, I come to an abrupt stop and quickly throw myself back behind the wall. Farther down the corridor, I see a glowing ball of light that must be on the tip of someone's wand. _Lumos_. Now would not be a good time to get caught roaming the halls past hours, with a visible outline of my hard cock. I swear quietly under my breath and wish I had my cloak to shield myself.

I press my back against the wall and my hands to my forehead, taking a steadying breath. I hear a distant voice—McGonagall's—muttering to herself some nonsense or other. "_Shit,"_ I mouth, and look widely around at the hall I'm in. I groan when I realize there really isn't anywhere to hide, but her voice is getting louder. There are no rooms near me, and a peek down the hall reveals the staircase has settled back on a lower level.

Suddenly I'm pushed hard into the wall by a solid, warm body, and an invisibility cloak is dragged over my head. My hair is tousled and mussed. I gasp because I'm startled for a moment, and then I remember. _Potter_. It's dark under the cloak and I can barely see his face, but I feel the entire length of his body pressed tightly against me, holding me securely and almost painfully to the stone wall. I'm holding my breath, but he's breathing loudly and heavily by my ear, his lips so close to the soft, sensitive skin of my neck. An inch or two to the left and his mouth would be on the juncture between my neck and shoulder.

We're molded together painfully and I am touching his entire body with my own. Potter's a few inches shorter than me and stockier; I've always been finer boned than most males. I shift slightly, and I realize my wrists are caught in his tight grasp and my arms are held to the wall. His hands are large and strong and his fingers, tough and calloused from physical work and quidditch, easily circle around my thin wrists.

He's as hard and hot as I am. I feel the firmness of his cock through my slacks and his jeans, right _there_ against my thigh. I moan and bite my lip and he moans back and breathes hot, moist breath on to my neck and I moan quietly again, feeling wanton and like a bit of a slag. We hear McGonagall's soft footfalls as she turns the turn the corner and we both become still and quiet, holding our breaths. She is about to pass close by Potter so he presses my body even harder into the wall, forcing air from my lungs, and my ribs creak in protest. My hipbones are sharp and pointy and digging into him—they probably hurt. He doesn't seem to mind, judging by the erection hard and hot against my thigh. It feels big and thick. My own is digging into his taught lower stomach.

McGonagall is nearing the staircase now, waiting as it rises from the lower floor. Potter and I are still silent and melded together. When he exhales, it tousles my hair and tickles my neck. I cannot help it when a shutter runs through my body. Potter feels it and rubs his hard cock against me. We both stifle groans.

His lips are still hovering by that sensitive spot on my neck; mine are slightly above his ear, but if I tilted my head down ever so slightly … I lick my lips and lower my head. They just barely brush the shell of ear and he gasps and leans his head towards me as I pull away a little, teasing him. His breathing quickens and he lightly strokes my wrists with his thumbs. I learn in toward his ear again. My lips brush the shell again and I exhale slowly. He moans a little. I no longer know what I'm doing, and all thoughts of my mission and the Dark Lord are locked somewhere in the back of my head. I'm here now, caught in the present and the tangible reality I feel pressed length for length against my slender body … with Potter.

I travel the same path of my lips with the tip of my tongue and he begins to slide his hands up my forearms, caressing them increasingly firmly, moaning a little more. The fine blond hair on my arms stands on end at his touch. I suck his earlobe between my teeth for a moment and continue using my tongue on that soft skin, listening to the moans I'm drawing out of him.

Potter reaches down and grabs my hips, suddenly pulling our hips and cocks hard against each other firmly. I groan and forget to stifle it, then my eyes immediately widen as McGonagall's glowing blue light points in our direction. I know she's heard me and the prickling sweat on my brow seems cold now. I cannot see her eyes with the light bouncing off her spectacles, but I know she's seeking us out. I mentally cross my fingers and hope she decides not to look. The last thing I want is to be caught in such a compromising position with Potter, him erect and melded into me, and I am near ready to rut against him. Potter draws his face back and levels it with mine briefly. He runs a hand up the entire length of my arm and I'm quietly panting. When he lifts the hand, he presses his rough index finger to my lips, indicating for me to be quiet. All of this happens in mere seconds, but it feels like a lifetime that I'm trying to hold my breath and contain myself.

Potter stares into my eyes and I can make out the lines of his face. His emerald green eyes glow like two lanterns in the night—they are lusty and burning into mine, penetrating me. I momentarily forget myself and am caught in his eyes. I drag mine away and over the rest of his face—his straight nose, his full, too-red lips, and his angular hard jaw line, shadowed with black stubble. His thick, wild hair falls heavily over his brows, obscuring his famous scar, but he's not the Boy Who Lived to me, he's simply Potter. I have a sudden urge to drag my tongue over his lips and jaw line, straight toward his ear lobe. But I don't.

Instead, I stare down through lowered lids at his full red lips and he darts out his pink tongue and licks them. They're now wet with saliva, and the light from McGonagall's wand makes them look so shiny and damp. His calloused finger is still pressed against my lips—silencing me—and he's staring at it now with a peculiar expression on his face. I've never seen him this close before, his smooth olive skin clear and seemingly soft to the touch. Potter's face is not perfect, but even I can see now that he's attractive. That thought distracts me seeing as I've never looked at Potter, or any male for that matter, and contemplated their attractiveness. But even Potter has his beautiful moments, like now when he's staring so intently at my lips and his finger.

He pushes gentle with his finger and drags it down slightly, outwardly mesmerized by the sight. I think now of how strange it that we're standing here, Potter and myself, ogling the other man and running our eyes over the other's face. I still hate him, but I can pretend for now.

At the pressure of his finger, my lips fall open farther, and his finger dips into my mouth the barest amount and comes to a rest upon the wet part of my lower lip. My eyes flutter closed and I feel like a schoolgirl reading a silly romance novel. I can't help it, but I'm entirely too hot and aroused by this situation, my pants too restrictive around my cock. If possible, Potter's eyes grow darker still and look eerie where the wand light bounces off them. He inhales shallowly as his finger dips farther into my mouth and touches my bottom teeth, running it over the enamel.

McGonagall hasn't moved from her spot, but she's staring directly at us, invisible against the wall, bodies tense with arousal and ready to spring. Her eyes narrow and her lips purse into an impossibly thin line, but eventually she turns and continues down the stairs. We both follow her with our eyes as she steps off the landing and the staircase begins to move. I finally release the breath I'm holding.

His face is hovering just an inch or two from mine now, hot breath caressing my skin. He leans in and I think he's about to kiss me and follow the path of his finger but instead, his lips brush against my jaw and move toward the juncture between my neck and shoulder. I expect to feel his lips on my skin at any moment, so I hold my breath and wait, but instead I feel a light wet stroke when Potter runs his tongue against my skin. He does it again and I shiver and start to pant.

Potter's begins pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses on my neck that trail down to my collarbone. His finger is still running along my teeth and I dart out my tongue and suck it into my mouth, circling my lips tightly around it. His other hand is now on my shoulder. I feel it slide down my back and settle onto my arse and then he squeezes it, hard, and I moan around his finger, sucking on it harder. Merlin, we've mutually lost our minds and I don't know why. I'm caught up in the moment.

He leans his face back again, but it's dark in the hall and I cannot make out many of his features, just the barest outline. He pulls his finger from my mouth and drags it down my lip, leaving a trail of wetness. Then he's there, _right in my face_ and I feel his hot breath tickling my lips, and mine tickling his. I'm waiting for what comes next and wondering who will play the next move in this game. I want to lean forward the last inch, but I stay just as I am, breathing heavily.

Then he _does it_.

Potter presses his lips against the corner of my mouth gently. We stand there for a beat, unmoving. He tilts his head to the right and kisses me more firmly, opening his mouth. The kiss gets hot and heavy in a manner of seconds and he licks at my lips and his tongue strokes mine. We're both painful hard and he's rubbing his erection against me now. His other hand travels down to my ass and grips me firmly.

Until now, my hands have been hanging loosely—I'd almost forgotten they were attached to my body—but now I'm itching to reach out and touch him. I do. My hands roam up the smooth plains of his back. As we stand there kissing and rutting against each other, I move my hands against the back of his neck and head, tangling my fingers in his wild black hair, which is softer than I expected, but very thick. I drag him closer to me and tilt my head to the right to deepen the kiss. His mouth is hot and wet and we're both panting and thrusting now.

I'm lost in the feeling of Potter and his solid, warm body, and wet, hot mouth. As surreal as the situation is, I've never felt more sensual or hot. I'm close to coming and I think he is too, judging by the quickening speed of his gasps, groans, and moans. I feel like a slag now, rutting against Potter in a darkened corridor under only a single thin, silky layer of his invisibility cloak. Potter. My boyhood rival. Right here. Right now. _Kissing me_. Hot, _wet_, open French kisses. I moan again at the thought and my shadow answers me with a grunt and a thrust of his hips. His sharp hipbones dig into my skin. I can't think; I just feel and quickly fumble toward ecstasy.

He squeezes and kneads my ass with his strong, large hands. He then lets out a load moan and his body shutters as he comes in his pants. I wish I could see his face, contorted with the pleasure of his orgasm, but I'll have to settle for feeling his hot breath and groan in my mouth. This sets me off and I'm coming too, holding him tight and close while my hands grip desperately in his wild hair.

We just stand there unmoving for a moment or two and catching our breaths. With the dizziness of my arousal subsiding, my head begins to clear and I feel weight sinking settling the pit of my stomach. The sweat on my brow is cooling now and I'm uncomfortable and sticky in my pants.

More thoughts begin racing through my head, asking me what the fuck I think I'm doing standing here with Potter. I've never had any lusty thoughts of Potter before now, but I wonder if maybe love and hate are as close as people say, or in my situation, lust and hate. What is wrong with me? I have a mission to complete for the Dark Lord and I need to focus, not rut against Potter like a bitch in heat. My life and my family's lives are at stake.

At that last thought, my eyes widen considerably and I push hard at Potter, feeling suddenly stifled by his warm, solid presence, heavy against me. He doesn't budge considerably, so I push even harder and more desperately, needing to get _away_ from him so I can think again. This time, he allows me to force him away with little protest and his invisibility cloak slides off of both of us and drops to the ground nearly soundlessly.

Both of our breathing has calmed and the corridor is completely silent. We stare at each other wordlessly; his eyes are bright and intense, mine are glazed and stricken with anxiety and confusion. From the way he is looking at me now, I gather that he's imagined the scenario we've just played out before. He's been watching me—my shadow is a voyeur. I haven't watched him, but I don't know now if I'll be able to get this incident out of my head when I lie in bed at night. Not that I've had time to touch myself as of late. But if I do, will I ever be able to hold my cock now without thinking of Potter?

My jaw clenches and my lips press tightly closed. I contort my brows, while my eyes screw shut and I think about what happened. It's dawns on me—I need to get away from him, so I resort to the only thing I know and act out.

I narrow my eyes into slits and my lip curls maliciously._ "This never happened,"_ I hiss, and then walk away without another word.

I try to pretend that I didn't see his face fall, but I don't think I will ever get that expression out of my mind either. It's one I've never seen directed at me before and it makes me uncomfortable. I don't like the unfamiliar, especially with Potter, and I want predictability. He's the one constant in my life. No matter what, I've always known I had his intense dislike toward me to fall back on. But now, how can I reconcile the old and angry Potter with the one who kissed me so desperately just now?

I think I hate him more.

My footsteps echo loudly in the hall, and I no longer hear Potter following me, nor does he walk away. I don't look back over my shoulder and instead keep my face directed straight ahead, but I just know that he is standing there alone in the dark, watching my back as the distance grows between us. It's funny how much I want to put distance between us, but was willingly decorating his mouth with hot kisses only moments before.

I reach a staircase and ascend to the seventh floor, willing myself to focus on the vanishing cabinet and my assignment. But my mind wanders back to the sensation of Potter's solid body and hard cock digging into my thigh.

When I walk past the door to the Room of Hidden Things three times, I hesitate before I go in and stare down the long corridor. I wonder if he's there, but I know that's a foolish thought. I open the door and cross into the room, cold anxiety traveling coursing through my veins as I worry about my task.

My heart drops and I know I'm going to die in this war.

I've never felt so alone.

My shadow is gone.


End file.
